


Wimbledon Park

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: Denmark Street musings [22]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 21:48:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21645973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: Set in the summer because I’m BORED OF COLD AND DARK NOW.Warning: End notes contain spoilers for this fic.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Series: Denmark Street musings [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1035698
Comments: 54
Kudos: 98





	1. Wimbledon Park

**Author's Note:**

> Set in the summer because I’m BORED OF COLD AND DARK NOW.
> 
> Warning: End notes contain spoilers for this fic.

“They’re up to something,” Ilsa said as she navigated the Honda she and Nick owned through London side roads. They had crossed the South Circular and were still heading south, into the opulent suburbs of leafy Earlsfield. The summer sun streamed down on them, and she squinted a little even in her sunglasses.

“Who?” Sat in the passenger seat next to her, Robin took another sip of her water. She looked at the houses neatly lined up on the streets, and reflected again how many facets to London there were. This was a far cry from the seedy bits of Camden she had poked around in yesterday, trying to find where their latest mark lived. It might as well be another world, with its smart front gardens and ridiculously oversized Range Rovers.

“Nick and Corm. There’s something going on.” Ilsa turned right into another side street. They were criss-crossing from Wandsworth towards Wimbledon.

“Are we meeting both of them?”

“Well, Nick didn’t mention Corm, but I reckon so. He just said to be there and bring the picnic and the blanket. And you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, that’s why I think Corm’s involved. I mean, no offence, but why would Nick insist that I bring you to our picnic? And he wasn’t just inviting you, he was adamant you had to be there.”

Robin giggled. “Fair point.”

“Plus, why drag us all the way to Wimbledon Park? There are perfectly good parks in Wandsworth or in the middle of town.”

“Hmm.”

“And anyway, he had that look. I know when my husband is up to something.” Ilsa swung the car into the car park. “Here we are.”

She chose a space and parked neatly, and they climbed out of the car. Robin stretched, and tucked the strap of her bag more securely onto her shoulder. Ilsa unloaded the cool bag containing the picnic from the boot and slung her rucksack onto her back. She pulled her phone from her handbag and consulted it.

“He wants us to head for the tree line we can see across the field,” she mused. She swung around and squinted. “Okay, that’s quite far. Come on.”

They strolled across the park in the sun, not hurrying, carrying the picnic bag between them. Each wore lightweight trousers and a top. Ilsa had tucked her hair into a clip on the back of her head, but Robin’s swung loose as always.

The sun streamed down on them and they chatted idly as they went. The park was fairly busy. A group of lads kicked a football around. Dog walkers threw balls and dogs scampered back and forth. In the distance, children played on a playground under the watchful eyes of parents and childminders.

“It’s a nice park,” Robin remarked. “I’ve not been here before.”

“I think I have. I’m not sure. Would have been ages ago, though.”

“So you have no idea what’s going on?”

“Nope. Only that Nick has been going out a couple of times a week and being quite mysterious about it. He takes his running gear, but he goes in the car. I guess maybe he’s coming here, but I don’t know why, he normally just runs in Wandsworth Park.”

Robin pointed through the trees that they had nearly reached. “Maybe that’s your answer. Look, there’s a running track. Perhaps he’s joined a club?”

“Oh, he has been talking about joining a running club. He’s mentioned it periodically for years, but never really had the time with his shifts. No need for all the cloak-and-dagger, though.”

Ilsa peered. She could indeed see an oval beyond the trees with a running track, sandpits for long and triple jump and markings for hammer and javelin. A few small groups and pairs of runners could be seen at various points on the track or warming up. Some ran slow laps, others were using the sprinting straight for practice.

Intrigued, the girls followed the tree line until they found a pathway through to the edge of the track at a corner. They put the bags and blanket down and peered around, shading their eyes from the sun and scanning the runners, searching for Nick’s familiar lithe figure and loping stride.

“Is that—?” Robin asked, just as Ilsa clutched her arm.

“Robin, look!”

Coming slowly round the far bend, jogging steadily, Nick cut a familiar figure in his top and shorts, but what had captured their attention was the figure running next to him. Strike.

Robin stared, her hand cupped above her forehead, squinting against the light. “How is he—?”

“He’s got one of those running blades,” Ilsa gasped. “Oh, Robin, look at him.”

Robin was looking. The men drew nearer, running steadily towards them down the back straight, side by side. They were not moving quickly, and as they got closer she could see the fierce concentration on her partner’s face. Next to him, Nick matched him stride for stride, keeping a steady rhythm.

She couldn’t tear her gaze away. She’d never seen Strike move faster than a shambling walk. She knew he’d attempted to run a couple of times on cases, and had usually ended up injuring himself, wrenching his knee or pulling his hamstring or falling. To see him like this, running steadily, looking so free— Tears pricked at the back of her eyes and her breath fluttered in her chest.

Ilsa’s grip on her arm tightened, and Robin reached for her hand, covering it with her own. They watched the men approach down the track. Spotting them, Nick grinned but didn’t break his stride.

“Oh, Robin...” Ilsa sounded as choked up as Robin felt.

“I know.” Robin’s voice wobbled too.

They saw Nick say something to Strike, and the men slowed to a walk. Only then did Nick nudge him and point towards where Ilsa and Robin were standing. Seeing them for the first time, Strike smiled and waved a little self-consciously.

The men crossed the track towards them. Strike moved slightly unevenly at a walk. Robin couldn’t tear her eyes away from his legs. She’d rarely seen more than a glimpse of the false leg he normally wore, sometimes catching sight of the metal rod that served as his ankle if his trousers rode up as he sat on the office sofa. To see him in shorts almost seemed indecent. His right knee was covered by the elastic support attached to the socket that encased his partial lower leg, and below it the blade curved, sleek and black.

His left leg, encased in a sports sock and trainer, seemed mundane by comparison, the skin pale as it was habitually deprived of sunlight, but just as thickly haired as his arms were. The sight of it brought home to Robin with a jolt that he really did only have the one leg. She’d not truly assimilated that fact before. It had only ever been abstract.

The men reached them, breathing hard. Nick was grinning broadly, clearly proud of his big reveal. Strike glanced a little shyly at Robin, and laughed at her staring.

“Are you looking at my legs, Ellacott?”

“I completely am, and I make no apology,” Robin replied. “Cormoran, that is amazing. How long have you had it?”

“Not long, still getting used to it,” he said. “I’ve been practising.”

Robin smiled up at him, at his slightly triumphant air. It was a little incongruous to see him standing there on a running track, his curls ruffled by the breeze, beads of sweat at his temples, looking for all the world like a sportsman. She’d only ever seen him in work shirts and trousers, occasionally jeans for a case or his suit for an occasion that warranted dressing up. His T-shirt and shorts showed off the new physique he’d been working on with regular swimming sessions at the local pool.

“I can see.”

Ilsa slid her arm around Nick. “I assume you had something to do with this?”

Nick nodded and kissed her lightly. “We’ll tell you the whole story,” he promised. “Did you bring a picnic?”

“I did.”

“Great. We’ll go and shower, and tell you all about it over food. Come on, Oggy.”

Strike gave Robin and Ilsa a grin, and then turned to follow Nick. They watched as the men crossed the track again, gently broke into a run and moved off round the bend.

“Corm’s lost a lot of weight.” Ilsa remarked.

“He’s been swimming,” Robin said vaguely, watching mesmerised as the men ran steadily away from them. “Well, actually, maybe he wasn’t swimming. Maybe he was doing this.”

They watched as the men rounded the bend into the home straight and ran on towards the pavilion at the far end that contained the stands and, below, the changing rooms. Their strides matched, Nick having clearly adjusted his to fit in with Strike’s and echo his rhythm, keeping him steady.

Finally the men came to a halt at the far corner of the track. From their distance, they saw Nick clap his friend on the shoulder and then stoop to retrieve water bottles from the side of the track by the finish line. Chatting and swigging their water, the men moved towards the entrance to the changing rooms.

“Right.” Ilsa wiped her eyes on her sleeve and looked around for the picnic bag. Robin squeezed her arm affectionately again, and Ilsa gave a little sniffle and a chuckle combined.

“Sorry, I’m so soppy,” she muttered, grinning and wiping her eyes again. “It’s just— They used to run together, years ago, when Corm was home from the Army. It was just a fact of life. They’d go for a run, come back and shower, I’d feed them and they’d go to the pub. Sometimes I’d join them, but mostly I left them to it. Seeing him...” Her voice wobbled again and she trailed off.

“I know.” Robin smiled gently at her. “You must have a clearer idea than I do of what he’s lost. I’ve only ever known him like he is now.”

Ilsa nodded and bent to pick up the handles of the picnic bag. “I wish you could have seen him, Rob,” she mused as they moved back down the path through the trees towards the park proper. “He was super-fit back in the day, with the Army and his boxing. He never complains, and he’s still our Corm, but... I don’t know.”

Robin nodded, looking around for a good spot for their picnic. They didn’t want to be too far away. Not for the first time, she wondered what Strike had been like before she’d met him, before he was a struggling detective with a disability to overcome and a business to build.

They found a suitable spot, laid out the mat and set up the picnic. They chatted and picked at the food a little, and before too long Nick and Strike approached, damp from their showers, Strike back in his normal trousers and the foot and boot that Robin recognised as his usual leg.

Nick plonked himself on the mat next to Ilsa, and Strike lowered himself to sit on the other side, adjacent to Robin. The men looked around appreciatively at the spread that was laid out, and Ilsa passed paper plates for them to fill while Robin poured lemonade into cups.

“Right, spill,” Ilsa instructed once everyone had a plate of food and a drink. “This must have been going on for a while.”

The men looked at one another. Strike shrugged.

“Okay,” Nick began, while Strike contemplated his plate of food with pleasure. He selected a sandwich and started eating.

“So, a year or so ago, a mate of mine put me on to an old colleague of ours who went into medical engineering,” Nick explained. He glanced at Ilsa. “Do you remember Nicola?”

Chewing her sandwich, Ilsa screwed up her forehead, then shook her head.

“Yeah, I think we’d lost touch by the time you and I got back together,” Nick mused. “Anyway, she started out designing callipers and so on for kids with cerebral palsy or motor neurone disease, and then a few years ago she moved into designing prosthetics. She mostly does sportspeople, obviously. But apparently there was some grant that someone organised, a joint thing with the Army, to supply a few ex-servicemen and women with blades. I stuck Oggy’s name down on the list and forgot all about it.”

He grinned at Strike. “I didn’t even tell him I’d done it. I assumed I wouldn’t hear anything. But a few months ago I got an email out of the blue.”

Strike nodded, still munching his sandwich. “He messaged me,” he said thickly, “and I wasn’t sure at first.”

“Oh, how come?” Robin picked up a mini sausage roll.

Strike swallowed. “It seemed like there must be people who’d use it more than me,” he said. “I wasn’t exactly a runner before. And they’re totally individual to each person and your way of moving, it’s not like I can give it to someone else.”

“But I persuaded him,” Nick said. “And here we are.”

“So how did you get it?” Ilsa asked, intrigued.

“We went to this amazing place where they do computer models of how Oggy walks, and design it for him,” Nick enthused. “It was fascinating.”

“And weird,” Strike replied. “I had to just walk about while they filmed me and then the computer does its calculations.”

“Does it take long to make?” Ilsa asked.

Nick shook his head. “They kind of print it,” he replied. “Print the design onto different materials and stick them together in layers to make the blade, and then they fuse them by baking them in a big pressure cooker thing.”

“Yeah, and then build that onto the socket,” Strike finished. He paused a moment, thinking. “Getting it was odd,” he went on. “I hadn’t expected it to be so different from my normal everyday leg. It’s so springy. I kept almost falling flat on my face, pushing off too hard. It still takes a lot of concentration to run in.”

“What’s it like?” Robin asked softly. “Running again?”

“Well—” Strike pulled a face as he thought. “Kind of freaky. I think I worked out I hadn’t run anywhere for over five years. So I feel incredibly fast, even though I’m sure I’m not. I’m just not used to being able to move above a slow walking speed. It was kind of overwhelming the first time.” He paused and shared a look with Nick that made Robin wonder suddenly what that first moment had been like. She tried to imagine having such a freedom after having been curtailed for so long.

“The things you take for granted,” Ilsa said quietly.

Strike nodded. “Yeah. So I’m still getting used to the speed. It’s good fun, though.” He chuckled. “But I’m always going to be slow, I think.”

“Can you sprint? When you’ve had more practice?” she asked.

Strike shook his head. “Different blade, would you believe. More spring and power for sprinters. I’m only going to be jogging. Slowly,” he added ruefully. “There are still limits.”

Nick grinned cheerfully at him and punched him lightly on the shoulder. “That’s not the blade’s fault. You were always slow,” he teased.

“Fuck off, Mr London Marathon,” Strike said amiably. “Everyone’s slow next to you. I’d still take you in a boxing ring, even with this leg.” He knocked on his metal ankle.

“I don’t doubt it,” Nick chuckled.

Robin glanced sideways at Strike. “Can I see it?” she asked tentatively.

“Sure.” He pulled his kit bag across and removed the prosthetic, sliding it from its protective sleeve. Robin took it reverently. Ilsa leaned across to look.

“Wow,” Robin said. “I don’t know what I was expecting. It’s lighter than it looks, but somehow heavier than I was expecting.”

“Yeah,” Strike replied. “It’s lighter than my other one, as well as being springy. It’s almost harder to walk in than to run.”

Ilsa ran her fingers along the blade. “It’s thicker than I expected. They look so thin on the telly.”

“You’ve probably only seen the highest spec ones on the Paralympics or whatever,” Strike said. “This is more of an amateur-suitable one. I don’t want to run in circles because one leg is faster than the other.”

Robin giggled. She turned the leg over to look at the underneath of the foot part. “Can you run on roads and stuff?”

Strike shrugged. “I don’t know. I think so, eventually, but at the moment I’d be scared of slipping or tripping. Going to stick to the track for now, I think.”

Nick nodded. “Uneven surfaces will take some practice getting used to.”

Strike sat back, another sandwich in his hand, and grinned at Robin and Ilsa poring over the blade. “I don’t think I’ve ever had women queuing up to look at my legs before.”

Robin laughed and passed it back to him.

“So this is what you’ve been doing in the evenings sometimes?” Ilsa asked.

“Yeah,” her husband replied. “Once Oggy got the all clear to use the leg outside the physio department, we’ve been coming here to practise.”

“Not swimming, then,” Robin said, grinning.

“Oh, I was swimming,” Strike said. “I wanted to get fit and lose some weight before I started with the blade.” He shrugged. “And I’m not quite confident enough to go it alone yet, so I still swim if Nick’s on shift or whatever.”

“You’re nearly there,” Nick said encouragingly. “You’d manage if you go steady.”

Strike grinned. “Yeah, but I’d have to get here on the bus,” he replied.

Nick laughed. “This is true.”

“Right,” Ilsa said. “This calls for a celebration.” She looked around. “Come on, husband. Come and help me get some ice creams from that van over there.”

“Good plan,” Nick replied, and put his empty plate down and fished in his rucksack for his wallet. The Herberts clambered to their feet and set off across the park. Robin started to pack up the picnic. Strike helped, and then as Robin tidied up the last bits, he leaned back, hands behind him, face tilted back, enjoying the sun. Robin cast him a covert sideways glance. He looked good. Fit, relaxed.

“You’re amazing,” she said quietly.

He didn’t pretend not to understand what she meant. “Thank you,” he replied. “I wasn’t keen at first, it was pretty daunting. But I had good inspiration.”

Robin zipped up the cool bag. “Nick?”

“You,” he said softly.

Robin stilled, looking at him. “Me?”

Strike sat up. “Is that so hard to believe? Look at you. Taking on a whole new career, learning as you go, and doing bloody well, too.”

He looked down, hesitated, picked at an imaginary bit of fluff on his trouser leg. “I know we don’t talk about this stuff much, but I am aware of what you’ve had to overcome to carry on with your life all those years ago, and lately to have the courage to leave Matthew, and to be out there on the streets doing this job. You do stuff that scares you just to push through and beat that fear.” He raised his eyes to hers, serious, reflective. “Your battles are no less difficult or your triumphs smaller just because they’re hidden.”

Robin dropped her gaze to her lap, tears welling again. She’d never had anyone in her life who understood her the way Strike did.

“Thank you,” she said simply. She blinked and looked away across the park, watching Nick and Ilsa at the ice cream van. Nick was paying and then tucking his wallet into his back pocket while Ilsa held four cones, and then he was taking two from her, smiling fondly down at her.

“Well, anyway.” Strike felt slightly awkward now, and tried to clear the air. “I figured if you were in my position, you’d give it a go. So I said yes.”

Robin smiled. “Are you glad you did?” The Herberts had set off again, bringing the ice creams back.

He put his head on one side. “I am, yeah. I still feel like maybe someone else could have got more use from it. But I’m determined to keep coming. Nick and I have both joined the running club, we’re going to try and come once or twice a week.”

“It’ll be nice for you two to spend some time together.”

Strike grinned. “Yeah, it is. We haven’t seen each other properly regularly since we went to uni. Life took over.”

“Well, I’m happy for you. And this is a big achievement for you,” Robin added. “I’m glad you said yes to it.”

“Me too,” Strike acknowledged. “And it’s one I probably wouldn’t have bothered with before you came into my life.” He flushed a little. “You know what I mean.”

Robin grinned, her eyes sparkling at him, seeing his pride at his accomplishment reflected in his face. “I do.”

“Well. Thank you, Robin,” he said softly, and now Robin was blushing too.

“You’re welcome,” she replied.

There was a quiet pause as they watched Nick and Ilsa approach, chatting.

“Those ice creams are going to be melted at this rate,” Strike observed.

Robin giggled. “They are. Here we go.” She scrambled to her feet to take two ice creams from Ilsa, and passed one to Strike.

“Thank you.” He held it up as the others all sat back down around the mat, getting comfortable. He thrust his ice cream forward into the space between them all. “Here’s to good friends, and thank you all. Cheers.”

“Cheers.” The four friends touched their ice creams together as though clinking drinks, and silence settled over them as they set about eating them before they could melt any further.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> December 3rd is International Day of Persons with Disabilities.
> 
> I worked on a TV programme marking the day. One article was about how blades are designed and made, and I wanted Strike to have one. I also lifted some experiences from the athletes on that, and from the guys on [The Last Leg](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Last_Leg) and what they said about being given blades to try out.
> 
> Disclaimer: Cursory research suggests blades cost upwards of £15 grand each, so forgive me for making up a scheme to provide him with one. I hope such a thing does exist.


	2. Parkrun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I posted chapter one of this a year ago, as a stand-alone, and I was just going to repost it on Tumblr (@lulacat3) because it’s December 3rd again, but then I started wondering how Strike had got on with his blade in the meantime...

Yawning, Robin swiped her card across the reader as she left Wimbledon Park Tube station and made her way, following her phone’s directions, towards the park itself. The winter air was cold in her throat, and she was glad of her hat, but the sun trying bravely to break through the clouds promised spring around the corner. Robin smiled to herself as she walked. She knew why she was being summoned here this time, and she’d been looking forward to it.

Strike had muttered self-consciously on a periodic basis about Nick and Ilsa’s determination to “make such a big deal” out of the occasion, which had warranted them all getting up early on a Saturday morning and assembling, but here they were.

It was about a quarter to nine as she entered the park gates and began to hunt for her friends. There were people everywhere in running gear, all making their way towards the same area of the park; Robin followed, and soon heard a happy shout and saw Ilsa making her way towards her in jeans, jacket and boots, clutching two takeaway coffees.

She kissed Robin on the cheek and handed her a cup. “Latte, nice and strong,” she told her. “I’ve lost the men already.”

Robin gazed around in awe at the steady stream of people pouring into the park.

“I had no idea there would be this many,” she marvelled. “Is it like this every week?”

“Yup,” Ilsa replied. “Not that we normally come here. Nick runs the Wandsworth one whenever he’s not on shift. You know him, a 5k is just a warm-up.”

“Do you run it too?” Robin asked, sipping her coffee and sucking in a little breath at how hot it was, her lip smarting.

“Sometimes.” Ilsa pulled a face. “I can just about manage a Parkrun, but it’s my limit. And Nick runs with me but I’m aware I’m holding him up. He barely breaks a sweat, running it at my speed, while I’m a puffing, sweaty mess.”

Robin giggled. “Maybe I should give it a try. I wonder if I can actually run that far.”

“We should run it with Oggy,” Ilsa replied cheerfully. “That would be more our pace.”

They watched the crowds, trying to spot the men. Robin was eager to see Strike again. She hadn’t seen him run since that magical afternoon last year ago when he and Nick had revealed their secret, but she knew he’d been going running whenever he could. He’d been a little self-conscious about answering her questions at first, but she had persisted and he’d relaxed around the subject. She knew, now, that he’d progressed to running off the track, and was starting to tackle slopes. That he was still a little nervous of falling, but learning to trust the grip on his new blade. She knew he’d had some problems with his knee, but that the spring in the blade and the exercises that the physio who had helped him adjust to the new way of moving had given him were helping to build the muscles around the joint to support it.

Nick, who ran with him as regularly as he could, had declared him ready, and so today they were entering Strike’s first Parkrun.

“Parkrun didn’t exist last time I could run,” he’d mused the other day in the office. “Or at least, if it did, I hadn’t heard of it.”

Robin had sipped her tea and let him talk. It was rare that he volunteered information about his exercise regime, but for once he had brought the subject up without her prompting, and so she sat quietly and didn’t interrupt his thought processes.

He’d glanced away, out of the window, then back again. “I can’t believe 5k feels like a big deal,” he’d said quietly. “I regularly did twenty when I was Army-ready. I was so fit on missions.”

“I bet,” Robin had murmured, wondering not for the first time what Army Strike might have looked like in his heyday, muscled and fit.

“There they are!” Ilsa cried now, waving so violently that Robin instinctively hoicked her coffee out of the way. In the distance, Nick waved back. Robin smiled across at them, in their shorts and T-shirts and running shoes, Strike with his distinctive height and curly hair.

A young man with a tabard and a loudhailer assembled everyone and talked them through the rules. He asked if anyone was doing their hundredth, fiftieth or even tenth Parkrun, and a few people raised their hands and were cheered. He asked if there were any tourists - those who normally ran other Parkruns, and Nick and Strike raised their hands and were applauded too along with a few others. Then the large group made their way to the start line. There was a lot of milling about.

“Who are the people with numbers?” Robin asked. Scattered through the runners were people wearing tabards with large numbers on the backs ranging from twenty to forty.

“Pacers,” Ilsa replied. “Nick is always trying to keep up with the low twenties. I’m happy if I come in before the guy wearing thirty! It’s a good indicator of where to start and how you’re doing.”

Robin nodded and watched as Strike and Nick made their way to the back, away from the crowds. She knew that being jostled had been one of Strike’s worries, as he was still a little concerned about his balance. A few people spotted his blade and clapped him on the back; a wheelchair athlete insisted on a high five.

With a minute, the race organiser had counted down and blown a whistle, and the runners were off.

Robin watched, marvelling. “There must be hundreds of them,” she said.

Ilsa nodded. “I think it’s about four hundred do ours, most weeks.”

At the front of the race, eager young men and women, often wearing the kit of a local running club, sprinted away. Robin could see them clicking buttons on watches to record their times. Clearly some took it very seriously.

But the rest of the pack was something to behold. Families ran together. Parents ran with young children, or pushing babies in pushchairs. People ran with dogs. Friends ran together, fast and slow, young and old, slim and overweight. Near the back, older or slower members. Some with bandaged knees or ankles, clearly working slowly back from injury. A couple in wheelchairs. And among these stragglers, but by no means at the back, Strike and Nick ran steadily.

Robin could see at once that Strike was steadier, more confident, faster, than he had been the last time she’d seen him run. He’d admitted to her that he was never going to be fast - the blade could function as well as his missing lower limb, but the damage the explosion in Afghanistan five years ago had done to his knee was irreparable despite several reconstructive operations, and he would always need to take it easy.

But watching as he and Nick rounded the corner and headed out of sight among some trees, she was overtaken by the same sense of awe she’d felt the first time she’d seen him, here in this very park at the running club behind them, on the official track where he’d learned, with Nick’s patient help, to use his new blade. To see him now, running on a normal path with all the other people, was like another minor miracle, and her throat tightened again.

Next to her, Ilsa sniffed a little, and Robin giggled damply and wiped her eyes on the sleeve of the arm not engaged in holding her coffee. “It’ll never not be amazing,” she said, and Ilsa smiled mistily and nodded.

“The finish is over there,” she said, indicating some lines of tape with people milling about, some holding buckets. “They hand you a token as you finish and scan it, and then the results are all on the website later.”

“Wow,” Robin was impressed. “Is it expensive to join?”

Ilsa grinned. “It’s free,” she replied, and nodded at Robin’s look of amazement. “Yup. They have sponsors—” she waved at some banners, and Robin noticed that the tape at the finish was adorned with the names of fitness companies “—and they make a little on the merchandise, I think - you can buy T-shirts, and wristbands with your barcode and stuff. But you can just enter online, print a bar code and run for free.” She slurped her coffee, which was finally cool enough to drink. “The staff are all volunteers on a rota. They ask you to volunteer to help at one for every ten you run. Nick’s done it a couple of times, and I’ve done it once. And at ours, loads of folk go to a local cafe afterwards. Once you’ve got past getting up so early on a Saturday, it’s a fantastic morning.”

Robin nodded. “It looks it. A real community event.”

They made their way slowly towards the finish and found a nearby bench and sat, sipping their coffees and enjoying the winter sunshine. Robin pulled her hat down a little more over her ears and let the coffee warm her from the inside out.

It didn’t take as long as Robin had thought. In less than twenty minutes, the front runners pounded through the finish line, going just as fast as when they’d set off. Slowly the stream though the funnel increased, with a huge swell of people in the middle. Gradually they started to space out again, and Robin and Ilsa began to watch for Strike and Nick.

They were by no means at the back. Strike came through first with Nick behind him. Robin smiled; as Ilsa had said, Nick seemed to have barely broken a sweat running at the slower pace of his friend, while Strike looked tired, mentally as well as physically, Robin thought. As he slowed to a walk, she could see he was limping a little, and found herself tensing, willed herself to relax. She hoped he hadn’t pushed himself, injured his knee.

The girls stood and made their way across as the guys handed in their timing chips and went to retrieve their bottles of water from the base of a tree where they’d left them. People milled around, chatting and congratulating one another, swigging water and laughing.

Robin watched covertly as Strike took a long draught of his water. The sportsman image, which had seemed so incongruous a few months ago, was growing on her. It suited him to be fitter, slimmer. She could see the definition in his arms and his leg, and she couldn’t help but admire his shoulders as his head tilted back to drain the last of his water, her eye drawn to a bead of sweat sliding down the side of his neck.

Ilsa nudged her and grinned knowingly, and Robin, cheeks pink, looked around for a bin for her coffee cup. By the time she returned, the men were with Ilsa, chatting. Ilsa gave Strike a big hug, and then wrinkled her nose at him. “Well done, but you’re sweaty,” she said, grinning.

Strike laughed. “No law saying you have to hug me,” he replied. Robin couldn’t help but think that she wouldn’t have minded in Ilsa’s position, a thought she kept to herself as she smiled around at them all.

“How was it?” she asked Strike softly, and he grinned at her.

“Good, yeah,” he nodded. “Harder than I thought it would be in some ways, easier in others.”

“Cafe,” Nick said, clapping his mate on the back. “We’ve earned a slice of cake.”

The four friends began to make their way towards the park exit, strolling slowly. Strike was no longer limping, Robin noticed, and he walked more confidently on the blade than he had the first time she’d seen him.

“How come it was easier and harder?” she asked him now, falling into step next to him.

Strike canted his head a little. “Physically, easier than I was expecting,” he replied. “But mentally harder. It’s a lot of concentrating, and a lot to concentrate on, from keeping my balance on the blade to checking out the uneven ground ahead, avoiding fallen leaves and so on and making sure I didn’t bump into anyone. And I was a bit concerned about my knee from about halfway round,” he added, “but actually, although I thought it was going to give me problems, it has managed.”

“Rest it,” Nick said over his shoulder as he strolled ahead, hand in hand with Ilsa. “Wouldn’t hurt to get some ice on it this afternoon, either.”

Strike grinned. “I have no plans for this afternoon apart from to sit in front of the football with a beer, so I’m sure I can manage that.”

They exited the park and made their way slowly along the road towards the shops.

“You did well,” Robin said quietly. Strike looked across at her, but he didn’t object or ask her to clarify.

“Thanks,” he replied. “It’s quite a sense of achievement, actually.”

Robin nodded. “Where’s your usual leg?” she asked.

“In the car,” Strike replied. “I stayed at Nick and Ilsa’s last night to make this morning easier, so they brought me. I wasn’t sure whether to change back for this part or not, but I don’t suppose we’ll be long.”

Robin noticed that he was watching the pavement ahead carefully in a way that he didn’t so much with his other leg; she hesitated, then linked her arm with his, a casual gesture that nevertheless gave him a little support. Strike said nothing, but he cast her a smile that made her heart glow, and he didn’t draw his arm away.

Arm in arm, they followed their friends towards the cafe where coffee and hopefully cake awaited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Parkrun. I think it’s global? But we have loads in the UK. Thanks to the Dodgy Knee™️, I don’t make it very often, and in the UK there have been no Parkruns since March this year anyway. But it’s been amazing to watch something that started out as community exercise grow. They really are exactly as I describe here (or at least my local is) - hundreds of people, from runners just doing it as a mini training exercise as part of a bigger thing, right down to folks like me pootling along at the back. There are kids, dogs, babies in pushchairs, people with injuries and/or disabilities, and all are welcome. It’s one of those things communities do so well, and it’s totally free.


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